


how do you like your coffee in the morning?

by tamquamm



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24375265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamquamm/pseuds/tamquamm
Summary: “We have a lot of cows.”Adam pauses mid-pour. “Cows? Like with the ‘s’ at the end? Multiple?”“Yeah, multiple. Like a lot actually. Just a shit ton of cows.”Adam practices pouring a latte heart into Ronan’s cup, he admires his handiwork before capping it. “I guess that makes you a cowboy, then.”Despite his protests, Ronan’s cup boastscow boyin Adam’s messy scrawl, accompanied by a shitty doodle of a cow smiling back at him.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 27
Kudos: 264
Collections: TRC/ CDTH Prompt Week 2020





	how do you like your coffee in the morning?

**Author's Note:**

> happy prompt week! a pynch coffee shop au for day one <3

Adam knows his regulars. 

He knows when they come, he knows what they like to be called, and he knows what they like to drink. It’s just more efficient, really, and it certainly makes the red eye shift more bearable, perhaps even more pleasant. And with a five-am start time, Adam will do anything for an ounce of “more bearable”. 

Besides, he usually gets a nice tip out of it. And that’s all that  _ really _ matters.

Mr. Gray is always one of the first ones in, never later than 5:30 on the dot. He likes his coffee black with a shot of espresso, and a “that’s okay, I’d prefer if you didn’t write my name on the cup” which is perfectly fine by Adam when there’s rarely any other customers yet and an extra dollar for his trouble. 

Calla wanders in after, right before the rush. Two sugars and one cream, unless it’s raining out already. Then it’s an earl grey with “lemon if you’ve got it” which really, she should know that they’ve got it by now. But Adam likes the routine enough that he nods along with it and dutifully plunks the nicest looking wedge into her cup. 

The rush is a bit more of a challenge, a mixture of his regulars that come in droves alongside randoms whose orders Adam tries to size up before they make it to the counter. There’s a certain rhythm that’s necessary to fall into, for making the morning rush work. Adam just happens to be very good at drumming along. 

Near the end of the rush, just after the middle school kids head off with their sugary drinks, the last wave of business-dressed yuppy types are scheduled to come in. Adam gets to work on their drinks before they even arrive, confident in his routine. He’s just finished scribbling “LYNCH” on the side of a cup when the door chimes. Right on time, a familiar head of dark curls, slicked neatly black, walks through his door. 

“Morning, Declan,” Adam says, already pumping the appropriate fixings into his cup. “I’ve got an Americano for you, coming right up.”

Declan smiles politely enough and slips his usual pair of bills into Adam’s tip jar. “You’re a saint.”

And Adam grins, because he knows it. 

So most mornings go like that, each one a loose copy of the last. There’s some minor changes here and there, seasonal rotations, the like. But it all boils down to the same formula, his regulars as constants and the output guaranteeing a full tip jar. Boring sometimes, sure, but easy enough. 

Boring, until suddenly his routine, his pattern, is shattered on a sunny morning.

Adam’s busy getting Declan’s cup ready when the door chimes and he hears an unfamiliar voice exclaim, “I want extra caramel.”

“You’re going to have a sugar crash,” is the reply, in a surprisingly familiar monotone.

Adam looks up, then, curious to find yuppy Declan, trailed with company. It takes Adam a minute to realize that they  _ are _ in fact Declan’s company, because he wouldn’t have guessed this entourage otherwise. The one closest to him -- the one that had spoken before, because he’s still speaking now, insistent on the extra caramel -- young and round faced, dressed in his private school uniform. 

But the other, trailing behind them but rolling his eyes at the argument nonetheless; Adam wouldn’t have guessed he or Declan would have wanted anything to do with each other. 

(He learns quickly that he isn’t necessarily  _ wrong _ , though).

“Morning, Declan,” Adam says, glancing at the other two.

“Just the Americano for me, and then whatever they want,” he nods at them, and if Adam didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn he heard a hint of exasperation in Declan’s voice.

Adam dutifully takes down the order for  _ “this is my younger brother, just write LYNCH 3”  _ and makes sure to put enough underlines for  _ extra caramel _ to match his enthusiasm. He shows it to him, and earns not just a nod of approval but a wide grin, too. 

“And for you?” 

Adam looks to the other guy, and he’s already looking back. When he catches Adam’s eye, he just shrugs, then looks away. “Uh, just the same as my brother. Thanks.”

Another Americano it is, then. Adam disappears from the counter and watches Declan and Co shuffle to the pick up area. When he hands over drinks for LYNCH 1 through LYNCH 3, he can’t help the curiosity to observe them just a little longer. Who would’ve thought, yuppy Declan, not so boring after all. 

☕ ☕ ☕

Adam sees Declan the next morning, on his own and back to his usual, quiet pleasantries and no interesting entourages to break up Adam’s mundane routine. 

Adam sees LYNCH 2 a couple days later, on his own and interesting enough to break up Adam’s mundane routine.

It’s long enough after the morning rush that the cafe is nearly empty, so it’s just Adam, the nameless Lynch brother, and the old man that likes to sit at the far corner table and read the newspapers in the mornings. 

“Lynch two, right?” Adam grins, leaning against his counter. “What can I get you?”

His eyes go wide first, and then his brow ruffles into a face. “Please don’t call me  _ Lynch two _ , my brother would love that.”

Adam shrugs. “So what can I call you? That your brother won’t love, I mean.”

He scoffs, but there’s a hint of a smile there. “I’m Ronan.”

“Ro-nan,” Adam draws it out as he scribbles it onto a cup, angled so Ronan can see it. Then he proceeds to write below it:  _ not lynch 2 _ . Ronan does laugh then, and Adam feels a small sense of achievement. “Nice to meet you, Ronan-not-Lynch-two, I’m Adam,” Adam says, “now what can I get you today?”

The easy smile in Ronan’s features flickers for a second, but Adam doesn’t point it out. Instead, “I gave you an Americano last time if you liked that? That’s what Declan always gets--”

“Oh then definitely a no to that,” Ronan says quickly, snapping back into it. “Not that it was your fault it was bad,” he clarifies quickly when he sees Adam’s expression, “but if Declan likes it, it’s inevitable.”

Adam gives him a look. “Then why’d you ask for the same thing as him?”

Ronan rubs at the back of his neck. “Usually I just drink it black, straight out of the pot,” he says in way of explanation. He stops, then straightens up and starts again. “Hey, just make me whatever you’re good at making or whatever. Like your favorite thing to make? Just do that.”

Adam can’t help but light up at that. Hey, if the customer is offering, there’s plenty of things Adam would like to make with his actual barista skills, rather than the five hundred Americanos he makes all day. “I can do that,” Adam can’t help his grin, a real one, uncontained. “Watch a master at work.”

  
  


Ronan sits up at the bar and does as he’s told, dutifully watches Adam make his drink. Adam has his back turned to him, mostly, but that’s okay. Ronan is content to just watch the flow of his movements, the peeks he gets at his steady hands while he mixes and pours. His fingers cradle the cup so gently, but firm, and Ronan knows then that he’s watching a master at his craft.

He can’t help but think about the way Adam’s face changed, the flash of genuine excitement at the prospect of having free reign to do his thing for Ronan. And for that alone, Ronan doesn’t care what his drink tastes like, as long as it comes with Adam’s smile.

It hits him then, even though he should’ve seen it coming with the same sense that walked his two feet to Declan’s favorite cafe, of all places. It hits him, anyway, when he’s watching Adam press the lid over his cup. The both terrible and wonderful feeling that he’s completely, absolutely fucked. 

☕ ☕ ☕

Ronan becomes part of Adam’s routine. He isn’t there daily, not at first, but he’s there often enough that by the time the morning rush has completely died out, Adam can’t help but stare hopefully at the door in case Ronan might walk through it that day. 

It’s usually just the two of them (and the newspaper man, but he doesn’t count) when Ronan comes in, so Adam has more berth to get into more intricate and lengthier-prepped drinks. It’s quiet, and while Adam enjoys the hum of the bar equipment, his curiosity regarding the Lynches beats out the ambience.

He asks Ronan about what he does, what he’s about, careful not to ask about his older brother after quickly learning the first time that it’s a sore spot. Otherwise, Ronan talks easily, gets caught up in retellings of his life on his inherited farm. Quiet and homely and all his. 

“So you’re basically a farmer,” is what Adam contributes.

Ronan rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling a little. “I guess I am. Please don’t ask me to grow anything, though.”

“A farmer who doesn’t want anything to do with plants,” Adam hums, capping his finished drink. “I like it.”

When Ronan looks at his cup later, he finds  _ farmer*  _ and  _ *terms and conditions of plants apply  _ scribbled on his cup.

☕ ☕ ☕

“We have a lot of cows.”

Adam pauses mid-pour. “Cows? Like with the ‘s’ at the end? Multiple?”

“Yeah, multiple. Like a lot actually. Just a shit ton of cows.”

Adam practices pouring a latte heart into Ronan’s cup, he admires his handiwork before capping it. “I guess that makes you a cowboy, then.”

“It does not, cowboys are totally different,” Ronan argues, “they lasso them and shit. I just  _ have _ them.”

“And hang out with them?” Adam hazards, teasing. “Fine, just a cow boy, with a space in the middle.” He leans on the counter with the finished mystery drink of the day.

Ronan mutters “cow boy” incredulously, but he gratefully accepts his drink. Adam doesn’t miss the way he lets his fingers linger on his when he hands it off. He doesn’t pull away.

Despite his protests, Ronan’s cup boasts  _ cow boy _ in Adam’s messy scrawl, accompanied by a shitty doodle of a cow smiling back at him. 

☕ ☕ ☕

“So what are your cows?” Ronan says, the next time he’s in. 

“I don’t have any cows,” Adam says simply.

“Not literal cows, but like. What weird shit are you hiding?”

Adam shoots him a look. “Just because you’re hiding weird shit doesn’t mean everyone is.”

Ronan stretches, precariously yet somehow still gracefully leaned back on the stool. “Everyone has something, even you, Adam Parrish.”

Adam freezes for a split second, but he’s facing away from Ronan. He hopes he didn’t see it. It’s innocuous enough, but it’s still a hell of question for Adam, who’s juggling a whole lot of things all at once. For Adam, who enjoys the few minutes of his day with Ronan, where he only has to think of the moment and doesn’t have to think about those whole lot of things at all.

Instead, Adam throws Ronan a look over his shoulder, then goes back to concentrating on the cream he’s beating into a whip. “This is my thing, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Whisking?”

“No, asshole,” Adam laughs. “I like barista shit. Mixing drinks and getting them perfect and making them pretty. It’s like art, but less pretentious.”

Ronan lifts a brow. “Barista shit is kind of pretentious, come on.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Adam readily agrees, “but it’s a different kind of pretentious than art pretentious.”

Ronan thinks about Declan. Yeah okay, fair point.

“Coffee boy does not have the same ring to it as cow-space-boy,” Ronan muses, eyes trained on the lines of Adam’s forearms as he works at the cream, sleeves pushed up to his elbows for a front row view of freckled muscle. 

“Coffee-space-boy,” Adam quips. “There you go.”

“That’s better,” Ronan agrees. He rests his elbows on the counter and leans in, drawn in closer to watch Adam work. “Why do you like it so much?”

“Lots of things,” Adam hums in time with his pours, “I like that I can use the same base ingredients to make a hundred different things. I like that there’s technique and precision. I like that it does what I want it to.”

It goes on like that, Ronan asking questions about the coffee, about what Adam’s doing.  _ Why do you have to whip that cream? _ and  _ Why would you need salt for a drink? _ or  _ What’s the difference between that roast and that one? They all look the same _ . Adam happily divulges his expanse of coffee knowledge, excitedly walks Ronan through what he’s doing. All calm and cool and patient through it all. He rolls through Ronan’s teasing jabs, revels in his hints of compliments.

By the end of it, Ronan is rewarded with a steamy to go cup, filled with the best drink he’s ever had.

There’s a doodle of a coffee cup on the side, the likeness of a foamy latte heart sharpied in its center.

☕ ☕ ☕

“Hey Ronan,” Adam says from behind the pastry cabinet. Ronan can’t actually see him, but he sees the trays of cakes and brownies and other fancy looking bread things getting switched out by hands that he instantly recognizes as Adam’s.

“Cake day?” Ronan slides into his usual spot at the bar, watches Adam while he takes the brownies leftover on the old tray and carefully stacks them under a cakedome on the counter. 

“We have fresh cakes every day, it’s more like cake time,” Adam says, “I get out in like, fifteen. Gotta do it before I go.” He secures the glass dome over the stack and then turns to fully face Ronan, the full brunt of his smile directed at him all at once. “Your usual? The Adam Parrish Special of the Day?” 

“As long as it’s not an Americano,” Ronan nods. 

Adam picks up the cup and flicks the cap off his sharpie. He pauses before he marks it, though, and looks back up at Ronan. “For here or to go?”

Huh, that’s new. Adam doesn’t usually ask, Ronan’s always had it to go before. Whatever, Ronan figures he shouldn’t read too much into it. “To go?” he says, and even he can hear the hesitance in his own voice.

Adam’s face remains schooled and doesn’t give much away, so Ronan lets out the breath he was holding and hopes he didn’t fuck up somehow. He relaxes further when Adam starts talking while he works, the familiarity of their mid-morning conversations lulling him back to his senses. 

“Hey,” Adam says when he slides him his completed drink. “Wait here a sec.”

Ronan makes an inquisitive face but does as he’s told, waits patiently at the bar while he watches Adam bag one of the brownies from under the dome and disappear to the back room.

He emerges a second later, out of his apron and wrapped in a zipped hoodie, messenger bag slung over one shoulder and across his chest. He snags the brownie from the where he left it and taps the countertop twice. “I’m headin’ out,” he shouts in the direction of the back room and makes his way around the counter. 

“Come on,” Adam nods at Ronan to follow, already nudging the door open. “I’ll give you half my employee brownie. For the road,” he grins.

“Oh,” Ronan blinks, and follows Adam out to the sidewalk. They stop while Adam breaks the pastry in half and holds a piece out to Ronan. “Thanks,” Ronan says, staring at it for maybe a second too long. Then he looks up and finds Adam already grinning at him. He smiles back.

“See you around, cow boy,” is all Adam says, before he turns and heads down the sidewalk in the other direction.

Ronan walks up the block to his car, and spends the drive home with the taste of brownie on his tongue and the traces of Adam on his mind

☕ ☕ ☕

The next time Ronan stops in, there is a girl at the counter where Adam should be. And she’s staring right at him, grinning in a way that makes Ronan more wary than anything. Somehow he feels like he’s walking into a trap. 

“Uh,” Ronan shuffles to the register, cautious. “Is Adam here?”

Somehow, the girl’s grin goes wider. 

“He’s got an exam today so we switched shifts,” she says. “I can take a message…” she trails off, a question.

“Ronan,” he answers.

“ _ You’re _ the farmer!” She exclaims, then, absolutely gleeful. “Oh this is too good.”

“I’m sorry?” Ronan blinks at her. 

“Oh,” she catches herself, then. “I’m Blue, and you should remember that because if you hurt Adam Parrish I’ll have to hurt you.”

Ronan blinks. “Why would I hurt Adam?” he says, instead of the million other things he’s thinking.

Blue shrugs. “I’m hoping you won’t.” She picks a cup and starts scribbling on it. “But boys are pretty dumb, you might not mean it. Like when you turned down his date the other day.”

“His  _ what _ ,” Ronan sputters, going completely still. “I didn’t--”

Blue rolls her eyes. “You think you didn’t, but he wanted you to stay and chat after his shift. To go? Really?” She turns away from him and starts pouring shit into things; it’s not nearly as interesting a show as when Adam does it. “Not that it’s entirely your fault. He should just say so. Again: boys are pretty dumb.”

He isn’t expecting it when she slides a completed drink across to him and snatches his credit card from his fingers. 

“Wait what did you give me?” Ronan eyes the drink warily.

“You never ask Adam that,” Blue hums, nearly a singsong. 

“You’re not Adam,” he accuses, but there’s no heat. He takes a cautious sip. It’s not awful, he’ll drink it. 

Blue hands him back his card with a wink. “One classic Americano, just the way you like it.”

She turns into the back room before Ronan can protest. On the side of the cup where Adam usually leaves him badly-drawn little doodles, is a cheery little smiley face, accompanied with Blue’s neater scrawl:  _ don’t be dumb _

☕ ☕ ☕

“To go, right?” Adam says, smile on his face that’s passable for customer service but doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s already got the to go cup in on hand, uncapping his sharpie with the other.

“Actually,” Ronan stops him, watches Adam freeze. He waits until he looks up at him. “I was thinking for here, maybe? But I mean, only if you’re going to be off shift soon,” he trails off. “If that’s, uh, okay?”

He holds his breath. 

Adam breathes out through his nose, and then suddenly he’s grinning, his real one, face completely lit up like it had that first time, when Ronan asked him to go wild on his drink. 

“Yeah, I’d love that. For here, then.”

Adam’s drink of the day doesn’t take long, not today anyway. He pours two identical cups into the big, wide-mouthed latte mugs. Ronan’s watched him prepare the foam before, watches him do it now, the same way he always does. 

Instead of sliding Ronan’s drink across the bar as usual, Adam nods his head in the direction of the tables (opposite corner from where the newspaper man is deep in his newspapers) and steps around to the other side of the counter.

He sets Ronan’s mug in front of him, a perfectly shaped latte heart in the center of his cup. Ronan can’t stop staring at it, the implications of it.

“Ronan?” Adam’s voice snaps him out of it, gentle. 

Words escape him, but he hopes Adam can tell what he’s thinking, can feel it, with the look he tries to give him.

“Kiss me?” Adam says, quiet then, and scoots in closer.

Ronan doesn’t hesitate then, maybe instinct alone, maybe the voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like Blue, humming a reminder of  _ don’t be dumb _ to prod him along.

Adam tastes like coffee and warmth.

Of everything and anything and more than Ronan had hoped for.

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://tamquamm.tumblr.com/) || [twitter](https://twitter.com/typicaIrockstar)
> 
> rebloggable post for this fic is [here!](https://tamquamm.tumblr.com/post/619114693962989568/)


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